


Soul to Keep

by FandomWriter23



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Domestic Abuse Kind Of, F/M, Fake Character Death, Grief, Heartbreak, Homophobia, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-12-26 15:10:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomWriter23/pseuds/FandomWriter23
Summary: In a world where you're born with the first name of your soulmate on your wrist, some people spend their whole lives waiting, while others know too many people with the same name.Sherlock Holmes has always found the concept of soulmates frustrating and tiresome and, secretly, quite lovely. Or perhaps that's due to spending too much time in the morgue with Molly. Either way, as a boy, he found it quite frustrating that his soulmate has such a generic name. I mean, really, couldn't his parents have been a little more unique with their choice of names?John Watson has spent most of his life ignoring the name on his wrist. He wasn't even sure he was gay, and what kind of person has such an odd name, anyway? So John keeps moving through life, intent on choosing his own path in life.So what happens when these two cross paths?





	1. Chapter One

Sherlock was only nine, and he was being particularly bothersome today, if Mycroft was to be believed. But then again, what sixteen-year-old wanted to spend any extended amount of time with their little brother?

 

"I'm sure he'll be handsome and dashing. Intelligent, too. He has to be more interesting than the normal people we are surrounded with. Yes, he will be able to keep up with my mind." Sherlock was talking, more to himself than anyone, but he was pacing their lounge, not allowing for his big brother to have a moment's peace.

 

"You watch too much telly," Mycroft commented coolly. Mycroft had never put much thought into the name written in sloppy handwriting- as if it had been written in a rush- on his own wrist. Sherlock's was written more professionally, strict even. As if the man who bore the name was very... proficient at whatever it was he did or was meant to do. Mycroft only distantly wondered what, perhaps, did his name look like on his soulmate's wrist.

 

"No I don't! But, I do wish he'd gotten a more interesting name, like Lucian or Malcolm. His name is just so common. It's not fit for someone who will be or is the most interesting, smartest person on earth, besides myself and you, Mycroft. Yes, he should have been given a unique name," Sherlock said, his mumblings almost incoherent. Mycroft could track his thoughts, though, and he frankly didn't care.

 

"The only thing special about your soulmate is that he will have to deal with you, and that will take some great patience, I'm sure," Mycroft sighed, closing his book as he pinched the bridge of his nose. _Why must I continuously deal_ _with this nuisance?_

 

"No, he'll be incredibly special! But he'll be so difficult to find!" Sherlock stamped his foot, his voice reaching a higher pitch. "Do you know how many men have the name 'John', Mycroft?"

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's whining tone, wondering how any relation of his could be _this_ annoying. "Do you honestly think 'Gregory' will be any easier to find?" Mycroft questioned his little brother, giving him a deadpan look. Sherlock instantly snapped his mouth closed before some obviously idiotic remark could slip between his lips. A thoughtful look crossed his face, as if he was trying to think up some smart comeback, but none came to him. Mycroft smiled triumphantly.

 

Mycroft went back to his book as Sherlock ran off, probably to complete one of his odd experiments. _Thank goodness._

 

"Sherlock, put that down! Don't do that! I swear, Sherlock, if you do not listen to me, I will send you off to boarding school! Do you want to go to that camp your father found last night? Come back here! Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes slammed whatever she was holding, most likely some pot or pan, down, her yelling indicating Sherlock was doing something extremely foolish, probably for an experiment. Mycroft winced, closing his book once more. He wasn't going to get any peace today.

 

Mycroft turned on the telly, switching to some news station. He watched it, ignoring the yelling of his mother and the snarky, shouted remarks of his brother in favor of learning of the politics of the world and the happenings of society.

 

"But Mummy, you don't even use it!" Sherlock shouted, clutching his mother's good silvers. They were wrestling over the silverware in Sherlock's bedroom, the small boy fighting tooth and nail to keep the objects.

 

"That's because it's only used for special occasions!" May Holmes exclaimed, not loosening her grip as her son tried to twist away from her.

 

Timothy Holmes came home from work only moments later, hearing crashes from upstairs and the news blaring in the lounge of their large home. "Oh dear," He mumbled to himself, putting his coat on the coat rack as he entered.

 

He decided to check up on the crashes upstairs, opting for trying to settle down the problem that has the potential to destroy furniture. He climbed the stairs in a bit of a hurry, guessing from the yelling that it was his youngest son and his soulmate that were having an argument over something.

 

He went to his son's room, finding what he had expected to see. His wife wrestling with Sherlock, trying to get something out of the boy's hand. "Dear, I hate to question you, but are you sure this is quite necessary?"

 

"He has the good silver!" May Holmes screamed, pinning her youngest boy to the floor. Timothy sighed, rubbing his face with his left hand- the one that bore his soulmate's name. It was written in cursive with numbers and elaborate equations around it, indicating her love of mathematics. He only wished she hadn't had to give up her profession for the sake of the children, but she'd insisted after... certain developments.

 

It was just the boys, May, and Timothy now, in this place that was only now beginning to feel like home, two years after moving in. Last year was when the last boxes were finally emptied, and Timothy was happy his family was getting back into their normal habits. He might not be as smart as his children and wife, but he understood people. After the events that had transpired, he'd worried his family, who has never been able to process emotions, might never fully recover. He was glad to see that at least some things would never change in this family.

 

He went downstairs, knowing there was no stopping a fight between May and Sherlock. "Mycroft, could you possibly turn down the telly?" He asked, having to raise his voice a bit to be heard.

 

"Not until Mummy ceases her yelling."

 

_Another day in_ __ _____paradise,_ Timothy shook his head and went to make dinner.


	2. Chapter Two

"Shut up, you stupid woman!" Mr. Watson screamed at his wife downstairs, most likely in the living room. John was only twelve; Harriet- or Harry, as her family and friends called her- and John were cowering upstairs. The distinct sound of a bottle smashing against the wall could be heard even upstairs, and John clenched his fists in anger.

Harry began crying, and John reached out to his elder sister. "Shhh, Harry. Everything's going to be okay," John whispered to his sister, trying to calm his own racing heart.  _This is all my fault,_  John thought to himself hatefully, knowing it to be true.

Harry jerked away from him, her sobbing intensifying as she curled up in a ball.

"I'm so sorry, Harry." Tears collected in John's eyes, but he didn't let them fall.

"You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?" Harry asked ruefully, hiccuping mid-sentence.

John wanted to hit something. Mostly his father.

"Please, Joseph, please! Stop this!" John could hear furniture being turned over or possibly breaking, and he heard his mother scream. He wanted to rush downstairs and stop his father, protect his mother, defend his sister,  _something_! But he was frozen, crouching behind his bed, tucked between the wall and his bed frame. Harry was somewhat tucked under the bed, hiding with him, but more out of needing to be as far from their father as possible rather than wanting to be close to John.

"No child of mine is gonna be gay! There's some thin' wrong with her 'cause of you!" Footsteps could be heard, heavy boots making loud stomping sounds as their father most likely went for the stairs. John's mother screamed. Panic seized John. He was pretty sure he was no longer breathing. Harry squeaked, then desperately crawled out and shot up. She streaked across the room, right to his window where a tree happened to have taken root long before the children had ever been born.

More crashes and screams and yells could be heard. She yanked the window up and open, putting one leg out the window. She was straddling the window now, and that's when John's nervous system finally kicked in. "Harry, what are you doing?" John hissed, getting up.

"I have to get out of here." Her other leg was outside the window now, and the sounds of their father's booted footsteps were getting closer. He was on the first step now.

She jumped, and John raced to the window, sticking his head out as his eyes darted around desperately. He saw her now, hanging from one of the tree's sturdy limbs. He breathed a sigh of relief.

She looked back up at him, her eyes begging, as they heard another yell that was distinctly their father.

John made a split-second decision, a determined expression crossing his face, and ran to his bedroom door. He swung it open, hurrying to the stairs. His father was halfway up, his mother crying somewhere downstairs, probably cradling a new bruise. He charged at the drunk; the big man stumbled back, falling down the stairs in a graceless, unceremonious heap.

His mother screamed.

John held his breath.

His father didn't get up.

John stared at the lump that was his father, searching.

His abdomen moved.

John breathed in relief. He didn't kill his father.

Everything happened too fast after that. The front door slammed open, men and women with guns rushing in, dressed in police uniforms and yelling for everyone to get down. John's mother was still screaming and now sobbing. The police aimed at him once they saw him. Yelled for him to put his hands up and behind his head.

John just stood there, in a state of shock, staring at his father's body. They yelled again. He finally looked at the police and did as told. They took the whole family under arrest- or, rather, who they could find.

They didn't find Harry. Delilah Watson kept asking about her daughter, but none of the police could find her, and John wasn't talking. Delilah kept begging her son to talk, to tell them where she was or where she went, but he wouldn't.

He sold his sister out one too many times already.

The police woke Joseph Watson up with a splash of cold water, and he'd come up swinging. The police had to restrain him instantly, and he kept yelling, asking what the  _hell_  was going on?

They separated them all once they got to the police station, interrogating them to figure out what had happened. They didn't allow them to talk to each other. Didn't want them to corroborate their stories.

John didn't know what his parents were saying. Probably both fervently denying any possibilities of domestic abuse.

All John did was sit there silently.

"Come on, kid. Your dad is obviously beating your mum, probably you and your sister too. Do you want it to continue? Sooner or later, your mum will wind up dead, and probably so will you."

John looked at the officer. "They're soulmates."

"Not all soulmates are good for each other, kid."

John remained quiet after that, and glanced down at his wrist. He pulled his sleeve down, covering up his own mark.

They kept questioning him all night, but they got nothing out of John. They tried threats, therapists, promised him protection, anything to get him to say the words that they wanted to hear.

The truth.

Everyone in school taught him that soulmates were to protect each other, love each other, comfort each other. Not hurt them. So how could John turn in his own father, his mother's soulmate?

The truth is often messier than anyone wants it to be.

The truth is, John's father is a homophobic asshole who gets drunk too much.

The truth is his mother is a sweet woman who is too weak to stop her husband, but tries to make him a better man.

Joseph isn't just not good for Delilah; he's toxic to her.

But that wasn't John's place.

It was Delilah's.

So, after twenty-four hours, Scotland Yard was forced to let them all go, unable to prove anything.

The broken family all went home, and there was horrible beating waiting at home for John that night. Delilah sobbed and screamed the whole night through, but this time with a rag stuffed in her mouth, handcuffed to the couch and unable to help her son anymore.

The chance to stop this from happening had come and gone, but Delilah had been too frightened of the thought of life without her soulmate to protect her own son, and John had been too determined let his mother decide his fate to say a word.

He took the beating that night soundlessly, not even a whimper escaping him.

He knew he deserved it.

He would never again look at his soulmate's name with longing or love or devotion.

Just pain and fear and contempt.


	3. Chapter Three

When Sherlock met John Watson, he'd long since stopped being excited by meeting a John.

However, he was frustrated that he could not identify the name on the other man's wrist. The man wore a watch on the wrist that most likely held his soulmate's name. He'd already checked the right wrist, but saw nothing. So, it had to be on the left. But the only time his left wrist was away from his body was when he handed him his phone to borrow it, and a watch covered where it most likely was. Other than that, he kept it firmly at his side, as if he was somehow protecting his soulmate's identity. Or, perhaps, he just didn't want anyone to know who it was.

It was quite frustrating, meeting someone with the same name as the one on your wrist, but being unable to see their wrist, their mark. That infernal watch was covering his wrist, and the man's face didn't reveal anything upon hearing Sherlock's name.  _He must not be the one_.

Sherlock, unlike John, showed off his own. Well, not really. But he didn't hide it, either. He saw John glance down at it, but John didn't react. Just looked back at Sherlock's face. Mike was smiling at the two, as if waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. Disappointment fluttered across his face, but Sherlock couldn't exactly pinpoint why. Did Mike think that John Watson might be His John?

Mike Stamford knew the name on Sherlock's wrist. They'd discussed their soulmates at some length, Sherlock actually enjoying Mike's company somewhat. He wasn't completely annoying, at the very least. He was fairly smart, actually. Mike had his own interesting theories about soulmates, and Sherlock had toyed with his and told Mike his own. It had been quite fun.

So, did Mike know the name on John's wrist?

Did John not believe in soulmates?

Was he convinced he was straight?

Was Sherlock repulsive to him?

Or, perhaps, did he want to know Sherlock before he confessed to being soulmates?

Given he was willing to be roommates, Sherlock most likely wasn't repulsive to him. But he couldn't be sure on his other questions.

During their first day of working together, John had met the infatuated Molly. She was a quirky one, putting up with Sherlock's unruly antics. Molly Hooper had also always ignored her soulmate's name in favor of falling in love and choosing her own fate. If she happened into her soulmate and fell in love, all the better. John had no knowledge of whether Sherlock's name was on her wrist or not, but he assumed not, considering that Sherlock did not have Molly's.

Molly had brown hair and a soft voice, reminding him of a meek mouse. John distantly wondered if she was plainly beautiful or beautifully plain.  _Plainly beautiful,_  he decided on, smiling at her kindly, almost sympathetically. She was a small mouse flirting with a dangerous, disinterested lion. And the saddest part was that he could hurt her without even a thought. He could kill her with a flick of his claws, and he wouldn't even realize it.

During their first breakfast together, Mrs. Hudson had worn no bracelets, allowing for full view of her wrist, of her mark.

Sherlock had learned long ago from Mrs. Hudson that not all soulmates were good for each other. Her husband had been proof of such things. No, her husband hadn't been her soulmate, but one of his goons, Mark, was, and he'd gotten murdered for it. Frank Hudson had even murdered Mark's current girlfriend to clear up any witnesses. Sherlock, of course, needed no witness to prove the crime, and he had ensured that she would never have to be afraid of him again. But, due to her soulmate's death, it had become an ugly, red scar to always remind her of the price she'd had to pay for her lusting after a hardened criminal.

Her scar reminded John of his own hidden mark. He knew soulmates' names became a scar upon their death, but he'd never seen it. His parents were both still alive, and his grandparents had all passed away before his birth. Now, seeing it, he wasn't sure if he could tell the difference between his scars and the scar a soulmate's name became. The pink and white lines were a messy, hateful game of connect-the-dots that no child had played on his wrist.

Months later, Irene Adler had waltzed into their lives wearing nothing at all and wielding a I-am-better-than-you persona. Sherlock had been intrigued, if only for her bravado. When he'd seen her wrist, he'd been repentant.

Irene Adler held Sherlock's name upon her wrist, but he did not have hers.

"I'm sorry."

"You complete my soul, but I don't complete yours. Don't be sorry for that. You deserve the world on a golden platter. Find the one who you bare on your wrist, and don't let them go. But, if you can't find them, always know that I am here for you."

A situation like this wasn't typical. For Irene to have Sherlock's name would mean he was her soulmate, but she wasn't his. John was. Whether it was Watson or not was beside the point. Someone named John was, and Sherlock couldn't settle for less than him. Feelings had still erupted between the two, as they were designed to, but Irene had been easier to ignore than she should have been if she was his soulmate.

John hadn't liked her- felt she used him. And, in a way, she did use Sherlock. She had been trained to manipulate, to use, to never care. She found it hard to even care for her soulmate as she should. Perhaps that's why Irene's name did not grace Sherlock's wrist. It was hard to say.

However, despite their misgivings and ruinous relationship, he couldn't resist saving her from those who had meant to kill her. Perhaps that was why John disliked her so much. She could make Sherlock human- in a way. John was jealous. Every moment she was around, he felt his blood boil. The temptress had no business with Sherlock. John was what Sherlock needed.

However, whenever that train of thought entered the station, John quickly derailed it. It wasn't healthy to think such dangerously possessive thoughts. He had no right to Sherlock.

John just needed to learn how to live with that.


	4. Chapter Four

After living with him for several more months, he thought he would have at least glimpsed the man's mark, or perhaps John would have finally shown him. Sherlock definitely didn't hide his own, but John never once mentioned it and always kept his hidden- guarded.

Sherlock wanted to see it.

He  _needed_  to see it.

When Sherlock finally got his chance, he took it.

It was a normal morning by their standards, Mrs. Hudson having made them breakfast during the early hours. John had thanked her, and Sherlock had still been asleep. Lestrade had come in, asking for some help. John woke Sherlock, Sherlock solved it within five minutes, and they sat down for breakfast. John had his morning paper out, reading it at the table- which had been freshly cleaned off by Mrs. Hudson, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Sherlock requested something from beside John for his tea, and John had somehow forgotten to wear his watch this morning. He reached out to give it to Sherlock, his sleeve riding up slightly, and Sherlock seized his wrist with zeal. He shoved the sleeve up more, revealing the messy scrawl across his wrist that held his soulmate's identity.

There, in dark ink, was Sherlock's name.

It was hardly legible anymore, old scars muddling the letters. The scars, unlike the letters, were a soft pink or stark white, forming raised lines all over the letters. Sherlock was only able to make out the letters with extreme focus, having to shove down the bubbling rage at seeing the scars. He had never deduced John to be a self-harmer, but abused was perfectly within the realm of possibility. Statistically, it had probably been his father. Probably ashamed of his son having a same-sex partner. Sherlock fought his own rage, knowing a military man who had been abused would not take to aggression very well. John would shut down.

The two looked at each other, but John just took back his wrist like he normally would and went back to reading the paper. Sherlock  _hurt_. He felt like he needed chest compressions. He felt like he was  _dying_. Yet, he said nothing.

He was a man drowning on dry land, yet he did not reach across the widening divide to seek his doctor's aid.

John didn't look fazed.

John looked  _fine_ , and how was that fair? How was it okay that he could break Sherlock Holmes's heart and not even have noticed?

But they both just sat there and ate their breakfast in silence, not speaking of it.

"You know, my husband didn't like to talk at breakfast either. He preferred silence. That is, unless we were in bed," Mrs. Hudson said, and John almost spat out his black coffee. Sherlock smirked.

"Mrs. Hudson, how many times do I have to say that we are not a couple?" Sherlock's face fell for a moment before he put on his blank expression.

"Oh, sure, sure John," Mrs. Hudson said absentmindedly, waving her hand about her head as if she was shooing away a fly. Sherlock chuckled, and John glared at him. John suddenly cracked a smile, and Sherlock's breath got caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

John's face changed for a moment, as if he noticed.

And maybe, just maybe, he did finally notice Sherlock.

John had never anticipated meeting his soulmate. Perhaps that was his mistake. Miscalculating his own luck to be in his favor, to believe he was not on a collision course with some other soul in the world that was supposedly his other half; that he was not destined to crash into some other person at a speed that could break a man's neck and regret every choice that led him to that end.

Meeting Sherlock Holmes was an end to the era of loneliness, sadness, fear, pain, and independence. It was the beginning of John Watson's end; he just didn't know if the ending would be happy or not.

The moment Mike Stamford introduced John to Sherlock was the moment John's fate had been sealed. He'd known Mike did it on purpose- didn't tell him who it was for a reason. Mike knew the name on John's wrist. He'd been the only one he'd confided in since he was young. Joseph Watson had always held a strong disapproval for the marks on his children's wrists. There was scarring on their wrists to prove it. He'd publicly believed it to be cases of platonic soulmates, but once Harry had gotten a girlfriend by the name of Clara- her soulmate- they knew it wasn't.

That had been its own sort of hell.

John had prayed to a God he'd never fully believed in since then, praying to never meet his own destruction. He'd watched his father strip away his mother's very identity, leaving her only with the knowledge that she belonged to him. John refused to let that happen to him. He was his own person, and no mark on his wrist would change that.

Of course, Mike apparently disagreed, since he'd introduced the two soulmates under the guise of the two being potential flat mates. But seeing as John had no other options- besides asking Harry or leaving London- he decided to live with him and keep the knowledge of his mark to himself.

But, when Sherlock finally saw his own name on John's wrist, John couldn't do anything. He wouldn't. John wasn't going to get tangled up in the mess that was Sherlock's heart. But, as he heard Sherlock laugh and then saw him smile, he couldn't help but do the same.

And when Sherlock's breath caught, John hearing it, he couldn't help but feel proud that he'd caused it.


	5. Chapter Five

John and Sherlock continued on in much the same way as they had before, only with added, longing glances towards John and his wrist. John continued to treat Sherlock in the same regard- as simply a coworker, a friend. A best friend, really. The ache in Sherlock's heart refused to subside, growing more painful as the days passed. Every day, John ignored his best friend's longing looks and pained glances.

Every day, Sherlock didn't notice John's own pained glances and longing looks.

Only Mrs. Hudson saw it all.

Mycroft had no knowledge of Dr. Watson being Sherlock's John. There was no medical record of the name written on the military man's wrist, despite the military's extensive records on him. It was common for civilians' not have a record of it due to parents' wanting to keep their kids' soulmates private, though sometimes it was noted by the doctors and physicians, but the military usually has it in their file. The military commonly found soldiers' and other military personnel's soulmates. They spent valuable time and resources to ensure that those who fought for their country would never be left not knowing their soulmates.

If the military didn't know, Dr. Watson must have ensured that they did not list it and did not search out his soulmate.

Sherlock did not utter a word to Mycroft of John being his John. It was horrible enough for a person to be unwanted by their soulmate, but Sherlock did not need Mycroft rubbing it in. Mycroft Holmes was many things, but sensitive he was not. No, it simply wouldn't do to have Mycroft know of his little brother's failings in the matter of soulmates.

Perhaps it was childish resentment, or maybe childish possessiveness, or spite that kept Sherlock from informing his elder brother of the Gregory he'd met while being a junkie.

Yes, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was his friend, not Mycroft's. Besides, in their youths, Mycroft had not seemed in the least bit interested in finding his soulmate. Why should Sherlock share his first friend with his brother?

Sherlock had tried to bury the fear of abandonment he felt whenever he thought of the two being soulmates. It wasn't until he'd discovered John as being his soulmate that he decided on allowing the two to meet. Lestrade had, in fact, been Mycroft's soulmate, however he seemed rather reluctant to allow closeness between the two. Sherlock knew how Mycroft must be feeling.

Even if everyone seemed like goldfish to Mycroft, a man like Lestrade could make the racing of his mind slow down. It's what John did to him; it caused his mind to slow, to savor every moment he had with John, basking in the presence of his soulmate, but at the same time his mind would accelerate to take in everything about John in a second. It was like a game of tug-of-war, his mind unsure of what to focus on.

"Sherlock?" Molly murmured, unsure herself of Sherlock's state-of-mind. He'd been out of sorts lately, more agitated. While Sherlock had never exactly been even-tempered, he'd never been this volatile either. If someone asked him what he deemed a stupid question, he lashed out viciously with his words about how stupid ordinary people were. If someone questioned him, he'd sardonically ask if they had any better theories or ideas. Molly knew it had to do with Jim- Moriarty- whatever.

While this didn't seem out of the ordinary to anyone who did not know Sherlock very well, Molly Hooper could tell this wasn't quite Sherlock. Usually he'd just sigh, or mutter to himself, but remain polite in his own way. This Sherlock had no qualms with making someone cry.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked snappishly, and Molly flinched, but forged on.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock paused his examination of some sample, straightening himself after schooling his shocked expression. No one had ever asked him that sort of thing. John was across the lab, not paying attention. Molly was murmuring, her words quiet. As if she didn't want John to know. As if she knew Sherlock wouldn't want John to know.

"What?"

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead. No, sorry—" Molly rambled, her words spilling out before her mind had bid them to.

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area," Sherlock said, cutting her off. His form of mercy, if a bit humiliating. He wasn't saying it for Molly, however. He was trying to save himself, to not have to admit to anything.

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad," She quickly explained, silencing Sherlock.

"Molly." It was almost a plea, but Sherlock Holmes did not beg. Molly continued in the wake of his silence. "You look sad. When you think he can't see you." She gestured to John, and Sherlock knew he'd been caught red-handed. Molly knew. Everyone might know, and it solved nothing.

"Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means—looking sad when you think no one can see you." Molly almost sounded exasperated, and definitely very concerned. This meek, quaint woman could see right through him. He couldn't lie to her.

"You can see me." Sherlock dodged the question instead of answering, not truly knowing what to say.

"I don't count. What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine."

Sherlock wanted her to elaborate. He wanted to know why she thought she didn't count, why she was there for him and not perhaps John, why Molly couldn't have the effect on him that John had, why he couldn't love her as she loved him. But he couldn't ask any of those questions. He had no right to the answers. "What could I need from you?"

"Nothing. I don't know. You could probably say thank you, actually," Molly rambled, and Sherlock wished he could take back everything he'd said.

Instead, he obliged her. "Thank you."


	6. Chapter Six

_"Your friends, your soulmate, will die if you don't."_

"Sherlock, please, you don't have to do this," John begged, staring up at Sherlock on the edge of the roof as he clutched the phone.

Sherlock wished what John said was true, but Moriarty's words were ringing through his mind, and he knew John was wrong. Four snipers were trained on the people he cared about most, and he refused to put them in harm's way.

He wished he could tell John of his plans, tell him that this goodbye would not be forever, that they would be together when John was safe, and the people who threatened him were six feet under. But he couldn't- not if he wanted John to be truly safe while Sherlock was away.

John had to think Sherlock was dead.

Sherlock knew John wouldn't take it well, that he'd fall into a depression, but John had barely noted the name on his wrist since the two had met, so Sherlock was fairly certain that he wouldn't fall too deeply down the rabbit hole. No, John was strong.

As John watched him, listened to Sherlock's 'note,' John couldn't help but hate himself for not acting on his feelings, for ignoring the names' on both their wrists in favor of hiding his fear. He didn't deserve a man as great as Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't deserve John's baggage. It wasn't until now, faced with potentially losing Sherlock, that he realized just how much he was in love with Sherlock, and how much he hated his father for ruining him.

John  _deserved_  happiness, and happiness was when John was with  _Sherlock_.

But now Sherlock was hurtling towards the earth, and John hadn't said he'd loved him yet.

"Sherlock!"

John was moving now, desperately trying to reach him as if he could merely catch the genius midair, and they could live happily ever after. Everything was happening too fast and too slowly all at once, John not being able to process it. He tried to keep his eyes on Sherlock, as Sherlock had ordered, but it seemed as if every obstacle in the world was between himself and Sherlock.

When he finally got to the crowd surrounding the downed man, John was incoherent, mumbling about how that was 'his friend,' still not able to admit the truth aloud. He fought through the crowd, seeing all the blood splattered on the pavement. His brain wasn't functioning properly as he dropped down next to the body, clutching at his soulmate, hoping to hold the life within the seemingly lifeless body. The crowd watched on, pitying the poor man who'd lost so much in a moment.

"I love you, I love you, I love you..." John kept mumbling, repeating the phrase over and over as if it would somehow change how he'd spent every moment he had with his soulmate, but it couldn't. No one could change the past.

"Please, sir, let us see him." The paramedics were here now, trying to take John's soulmate away.

"Save him, please," John begged them, covered in the warm, sticky blood of his soulmate.

John didn't really remember much after that. Someone told him he was in shock, but he couldn't say for sure who. Molly was there, holding him. Tears were slipping down her face, but it was like she was muted. No words escaped her lips, just soft, crooning sounds to the military doctor who'd lost his heart unknowingly to the dead genius.

The EMTs checked him over, if only to make sure the blood wasn't his. They gave him a blanket, and John numbly held it as he cried openly into Molly's shoulder. Lestrade was there, eyes red but no tears falling. He was growling at all his officers, ordering them about. Sally Donovan was forbidden from coming to the scene, as was Anderson. Both appeared repentant, though, even guilty.

Sherlock's blood was cleaned up, Lestrade declaring it a suicide. They'd found Moriarty's body of the roof, bullet hole through his head and gun residue on his hand. No one could argue that Moriarty killed himself, and then Sherlock killed himself. No one knew what words were uttered between the two geniuses, only that whatever was said led to both their deaths.

John didn't elaborate on what Sherlock said to him on the phone. He couldn't. It was Sherlock's note to him. Sherlock would have fought more to live if it wasn't for John's pigheadedness. The least John could do was give the man some privacy.

Mycroft stopped by John's apartment one night- or, rather, John came in to find him there. Mycroft was repentant for his hand in the rise and fall of Moriarty and in Sherlock's suicide, and he tried his best to offer words of comfort to the man. John asked him to leave, and he did.

Harry called once after hearing the news of Sherlock's death. She knew he was John's soulmate; the name had caused her little brother years of pain and suffering. She'd long since forgiven John for his slip up about Clara and regretted any harsh words she'd said to him on the matter. She offered her comfort and love, and John had cried to her for hours on the matter of Sherlock Holmes.

John started his therapy sessions again after one afternoon when he had just sat in his chair in their apartment, staring at his gun. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the thing that could take away his misery once and for all. He'd debated it before, but never in such earnest.

One way or another, he moved on. He got a job at a clinic in the area, and he began eating again, if only to stop worrying Mrs. Hudson. John debated on taking off his watch, revealing his mark for the first time in years- except when Sherlock had seen his mark.

However, upon glancing at Mrs. Hudson's mark, he couldn't bear it.

He couldn't bear to see how the ugly red scar must look with the white and pink lines. He couldn't bear to see the further proof of Sherlock's death. Or maybe he wouldn't be able to tell the difference, his mark so disfigured from his father's hatred and fury. John wasn't sure which sight would be worse.

No, not seeing the mark was better. Without seeing it, he could forget. He could imagine them together, happy, alive. He didn't have to remember Sherlock was gone.

He soon met a nurse at the clinic he was employed at, and she made him forget about the grief he carried with him. She listened, and she held him as he cried after informing her of the fate of his soulmate. She'd accepted his baggage with open arms and a caring heart.

Her mark was a scar, the name illegible to John. This sweet woman had lost hers as he did, and John could not help but feel like they somehow matched. Two people who'd lost their soulmates. She said she was born with it as a scar, a mark that her soul would never receive its other half. She'd never been able to read it, and her mother had bought her a golden bracelet to cover it. She didn't take it off until she went to college. John told her his was a newly made scar, and he refused to elaborate past that for a long time. He never took his watch off. Mary accepted that. She'd had her whole life to accept the knowledge that she'd lost someone she'd never met.

John had just lost his best friend, and he'd lost his soulmate. John had a right to mourn.

John told Mary wild tales from his time walking the streets with Sherlock. She'd laughed and cried with him, sat on the edge of her seat and huffed in annoyance. There had been a fair amount of teasing as well. She was like a balm to John's scarred and burned heart. It was perfect.

Mary was perfect.


	7. Chapter Seven

Sherlock's apparent death had driven people together and apart all at once. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had given in to his mark and Mycroft, abandoning all hope of rekindling the love he'd had with his wife, and he went to live with Mycroft in his spacious home. Mycroft had even convinced him to sleep in the same bed. If they woke up a tangle of limbs, neither quite sure who was cuddling whom- well, that wasn't really anyone's business but theirs.

John and Mary began living together in Mary's home, John eager to get away from the constant reminders of Sherlock in their flat. He'd promised Mrs. Hudson to visit frequently, but she was just as much a reminder of Sherlock as their flat was. He couldn't get himself to look at her, to hear her voice. There were a few calls from Greg, but Greg had no idea what to say, and John wasn't sure what he wanted to hear. Molly checked in once a week at first, but that became once a month when John began dating Mary.

Molly had felt the betrayal as if she herself was Sherlock.

Thus John's friendships began to wither. There was nothing to say, and even if there was, John could never have gotten the words past the lump in his throat.

Mycroft kept tabs on John. Sherlock's friends were Mycroft's responsibility until Sherlock could return.

When Sherlock did, he chose the least subtle way possible.

It resulted in a fist fight- a few, actually. John couldn't decide if he was more overjoyed or more angry. He went for angry, just to be safe.

He should be angry. Sherlock had faked his death. He'd put John through hell for months without even a note.

They were  _soulmates_ , Goddammit!

John paused at the thought. He'd never acknowledged it. Not really. It wasn't his place, his right, his choice. Sherlock wasn't his choice. Mary was. Sweet Mary- she was everything John's father had wanted his son's soulmate to be. Sweet, smart, accomplished, and a woman.

Really, just a woman would have sufficed to Joseph.

But Mary wasn't his soulmate. Sherlock- infuriating, careless, male Sherlock- was his soulmate.

John hated him, hated the mark, hated fate for making it. Why had he been born with a homophobic father, a mother who wouldn't stick up for her children, a lesbian sister, and a male soulmate? Why hadn't they been  _normal_?

John wanted to kick and scream and punch at something, anything. Anything that could maybe change fate's design if he hit it long enough, yelled loud enough.

John sighed, resigned.

He loved Mary.

He loved Sherlock.

In the end, he and Sherlock fell back into their normal pattern, just adding in Mary. It was somehow easier now. Sherlock refrained himself from openly pining, from pushing the envelope. John could focus all of his sexual frustration and love on Mary. Mrs. Hudson just watched them all in astonishment and frustration, shaking her head.

They were all falling down the rabbit hole, and yet did nothing to stop it, to end the madness swirling around them.

Mrs. Hudson hid her anger well though. After everything she'd been through, she knew not to throw away the chance at soulmates, yet they threw away theirs right in front of her face. She loved Mary- she was the daughter Mrs. Hudson never had- but John and Sherlock belonged together.

Mary had no idea. She never knew who's name was John's mark. John never let her know. Sherlock never let on, and neither did Mrs. Hudson.

Everyone just danced around the subject.

Everyone was a slave to the dance.

When John told him that he and Mary were getting married and that Sherlock was to be the Best Man, Sherlock was heartbroken. Somehow, he still thought that he and John would come together as they should have when they'd first met. He thought they might finally be able to be true soulmates.

But John chose her.

John chose to marry Mary, to be happy with Mary,  _to love Mary_. He accepted this rejection with as much dignity as he could muster, offered well-wishes to the couple, organized the wedding so that nothing would make their day anything but special (he hadn't counted on a murderer). He even managed to act happy at the wedding, lie during his toast that they were simply best friends, play the violin for them, and offer his protection to the happy couple and their unborn child. With the happy news, he'd departed quietly so that he didn't disrupt the festivities.

He slept on Mycroft's couch that night.

He ignored the worried look from Mycroft, who'd chosen to skip the wedding instead of being dragged there by Lestrade. He hated crowded places like that, full of goldfish and lacking any good conversation. Or at least, that's what Mycroft said was his reason for skipping the wedding. No one suspected it was truly in protest of his brother's soulmate marrying another. Sherlock had simply barged in and thrown himself on the sofa, content to wordlessly lay there.

John and Mary moved out of the flat. They said it was too cramped for their growing family. Sherlock had pretended that hadn't stung. He'd grown to love Mary more than he hated her, only holding a bit of disdain for the woman who'd unknowingly stolen his soulmate. He considered them his family, and to know they did not feel the same was as unsurprising as much as it was hurtful.

Not long after that, he began working dangerous cases again. He used it as an excuse to get high, though he never said as much. Lestrade tried to stop him, but Sherlock only shut him out until Greg relented. When John crashed into his life again in the middle of a big case, he was beyond frustrated. However, Mary was useful. Sherlock didn't want to put John or their daughter in danger.

Mrs. Hudson had been furious with John. If it wasn't bad enough that he had left Sherlock for some woman who was  _not_ his soulmate, John completely abandoned Sherlock in favor of some perfect, safe life with the woman. Mrs. Hudson may love Mary, but John wasn't hers. He was Sherlock's.

It wasn't long after when Sherlock realized Mary's deceit. He was torn. He couldn't keep John in the dark in the matter of his lying wife, but he didn't want to ruin John's happiness. John deserved something good in his life. He didn't deserve a lying, murderous wife.

However, he didn't deserve a lying best friend either.

So, Sherlock revealed the truth to John, and he left him to decide. John still chose Mary. Sherlock accepted this, and he saved the couple from the venomous, vicious Charles Augustus Magnussen. He also accepted Mycroft's decision to send him off to some foreign land where he would most likely be killed. It was his fate, and John could finally be rid of him and his mark. Everything would be right with the world.

However, Sherlock had been drawn back to England, back to John, and he ruined everything.

Mary died because he'd mocked and goaded a ruthless woman who'd been backed into a corner. Sherlock hadn't expected for her to try to shoot him. Or maybe he had. It didn't matter now.

All that mattered was John, his dead wife, and their motherless little girl.

The drugs took the edge off. They always did. With them, he didn't have to acknowledge that John hated him, that everyone pitied him when they should pity John and Mary for ever having met him. He could ignore the loss of Mary. He could ignore it all.

He told no one of Mary's plan. No one needed to know.

He disagreed with the late Mary that John would save him, though. John wanted Sherlock to die, too. He could see it in John's eyes that burned with pain, exhaustion, and hatred.

Sherlock just hoped to die.

He was happy when John finally released his pent-up rage by beating Sherlock. He deserved it. He got Mary killed. He might as well have pulled the trigger on that heroic woman. He deserved every mean word, every beating, John gave him.

When John finally forgave Sherlock, finally saved him, Sherlock could have died right then. He would've died happy. John nursed him back to health, and they moved on as much as they could. John and Rosie moved back in, and Mrs. Hudson had been ecstatic. Mycroft and Lestrade had been relieved. Molly was happy for them.

Once they solved their next case- the case of Sherlock's own sister- the famous detective retired from his work. He and John both decided that there was too much at risk for them to keep targets on their backs. Rosie couldn't grow up an orphan.

John returned to work as a doctor, becoming a surgeon to sate his need for higher stakes. Sherlock spent his days looking after Rosie and secretly helping Lestrade with cases from the confines of his own flat. John still wasn't Sherlock's, not really, but that was fine. Sherlock could content himself with John just being near after so long without him.

Life was now a new sort of normal.


	8. Chapter Eight

Troubles didn't arise between the happy two for a few months.

It had been a long night. Rosie hadn't slept well, and she'd kept the men up all night; thankfully, Rosie was asleep now. Mrs. Hudson would be gone all day with their neighbor for a spa day, so they didn't get coffee or tea or food until late. They were cranky, and tensions were running high.

Then they'd gotten into a simple argument about who should have to cook.

Any other day, and the two wouldn't have gotten into a heated argument, but the two had begun arguing about who did more around the flat. John's voice had raised itself to near-yelling, and that's when it happened.

The flinch.

It had only been there for a second, a mere grimace, like Sherlock had been bracing himself, but it meant everything to John.

John had convinced himself that there had been no lasting effects on their friendship. The two were supposed to be fine. They were supposed to still trust each other like no one else. That simply wasn't true. Sherlock still believed John would hit him, and why shouldn't he think that? Sherlock had requested John hit him for a case, and it had ended in a brawl in the streets when Sherlock hit John. Sherlock had appeared after his death, and John had beat him up. Sherlock had gotten hooked on drugs again to save John from himself, and John had beat him.

John feigned control over his anger, but whenever it was unleashed, Sherlock got the brunt of his rage.

Mary had never seen his thinly veiled rage, and he prayed that Rosie never would.

He would promise, but he made no promises anymore. Promises were too hard to keep and left broken hearts in their wake.

"Sherlock," John murmured, unable to find words to bridge the gap he'd just realized was between them.

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"Of course you are."

"Can you ever forgive me?"

Sherlock mulled over the quiet, desperate question. John Watson seemed to almost be begging with his eyes. Sherlock wasn't sure if he could ever truly get rid of his expectation to be hit. John had a killer arm, and Sherlock would prefer to be prepared for it than ever be blindsided by it again. It was a reflex after his recent years. Raised voices meant lost tempers. Lost tempers meant loose fists. No one cares who you are when you're the punching bag.

Truthfully, Sherlock could probably never lose his fear. He'd caught himself at times bracing himself around Lestrade, and once even Mycroft; to be fair, it had been a heated chess match. Flinching was all that remained of his self-preservation, all other skills having been lost to drugs and self-hatred. He could probably make it less noticeable, however. He never tried to hide it because no one had before noticed it. If he made it less noticeable, he wouldn't draw John's attention.

"Yes. You can start by making dinner tonight."

John sighed in relief, a smile gracing his lips, and an urge Sherlock thought he'd finally buried surfaced once more.

Sherlock desperately wanted to kiss John.

The two had danced around the topic for months. Sometimes there would be lingering looks, hands brushing far longer than necessary. One time, John even accidentally walked in on Sherlock changing, and he'd stared long and hard at Sherlock- even eyed him up and down- before finally walking out.

The topic hasn't ever been truly addressed. Before Mary, John had completely ignored their connection to the point where Sherlock had to forcibly look at John's wrist to know with certainty that they were soulmates. After Sherlock came back, their feelings simmered barely under the surface, no one acknowledging it. Even now, John pushed it away.

Or maybe Sherlock was pushing him away.

Sherlock had never truly released his feelings, his pining, since Mary had entered the scene. He'd always remained restrained to protect John's fragile happiness. Even now, with nothing between them, Sherlock still didn't let loose. Perhaps it had always been to protect Sherlock's own universe. John was his sun, Sherlock revolving faithfully around him. One small push could send Sherlock flying off into the cold, lonely space or careening into the fiery, burning sun.

Sherlock had never dared to upset the balance.

John stood there, still smiling gently at Sherlock, and Sherlock could hardly remember why he restrained himself.

One step brought him closer to his doctor. John noticed.

John took a step forward.

Sherlock almost wept. He flung himself forward, caring not for grace or restraint or fear or pain. All that mattered was John and Sherlock. Everything else was irrelevant. John caught him as best the stocky man could, the two stumbling back and into their wall. Sherlock didn't care.

"Please, if you have any objection, tell me now, because I desperately want to kiss you," Sherlock feverishly begged, his voice a mere whisper. He was a man dying of a thirst that only John could quench, and yet he'd only just realized he was dying of thirst. He'd refused to let himself want anything, and now he couldn't stop  _wanting._ Sherlock distantly remembered telling the Woman that he never begged, would never beg, but that was out the window now.

"Kiss me," John demanded, his eyes glinting with a dangerous lust. Sherlock wasted no time. Sherlock had given John everything he had, but now Sherlock took. He took everything John would give him. Sherlock's lips devoured John's, his tongue diving into his mouth like a swimmer who'd been too long deprived of water.

John was a drug Sherlock refused to quit.

If John never wanted this to happen again, Sherlock would accept his decision, but he knew he would wither away. After waiting years to finally touch his soulmate like this, the euphoria Sherlock felt was like nothing he'd ever felt before. If he was denied the heaven of having John after finally tasting him, he couldn't live any longer.

He needed John to breathe.

The thought of John denying him, rejecting him, caused a tightening in his chest that was extremely painful. Was this what Greg felt when Mycroft was away on affairs of state? Was this how Mycroft felt when Lestrade was on a dangerous case?

John wrapped his muscled legs around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist. John's hands explored what John's mind hadn't even dared imagine, mapping out the mountains and valleys of Sherlock's muscles. Sherlock's hands stayed firmly on John's waist, holding the blond man up. Sherlock distantly wondered if John could keep himself up with only his leg muscles, but that would have to be an experiment for a different day.

John pulled away, gasping for air. Sherlock allowed him the oxygen, breathing heavily himself.

"Bedroom," John ordered, and Sherlock was eager to obey his command. Sherlock strode toward John's bedroom, knowing his to be too messy for the neat and tidy doctor.

Sherlock laid John out on the bed, mesmerized by the sight of John. John stripped with ease, and Sherlock couldn't stop staring at the revealed skin. "Sherlock, if you don't stop staring, I'll take care of this myself."

Just like that, Sherlock was shocked into motion, tearing off his own clothes with an eagerness he'd only shown during particularly tricky cases.

Sherlock was all too eager to follow John's every word.


	9. Chapter Nine

John woke up the next day with a horrible feeling in his stomach.

He'd given in.

He allowed himself to feel something for the tall detective, to  _want_  Sherlock, and in doing so, he'd left himself vulnerable. John laid in his bed, staring at Sherlock's peaceful face. Sherlock's dark hair was matted to his forehead, and John had the urge to sweep it away from Sherlock's closed eyes. John let his fingers trace Sherlock's prominent cheek bones and angular jaw, wishing he could kiss Sherlock again, but he couldn't. He needed to maintain distance. He was more than just Sherlock's soulmate, and he refused to be reduced to that.

The tall consulting detective's eyes flew open, wide and frightened. His eyes were unfocused, not truly seeing John. When those vivid, green depths finally focused on the military doctor, Sherlock relaxed. John couldn't get that image of fear out of his mind.

"Mrs. Hudson made breakfast." Sherlock blinked.

"Did she hear us?"

"If she did, she didn't say anything," John said, and Sherlock chuckled.

"Well, she was away at the spa. Maybe she wasn't here," Sherlock reasoned, burying his nose in John's neck.

"It's good that Rosie already had supper by the time we had our argument," John muttered, relieved. Sherlock hummed in agreement, nuzzling further into John's throat. Sherlock nipped the salty skin, unable to resist. Until John pushed him away, Sherlock would gulp down this oasis until it ran dry. Sherlock had been wandering this desert for years, desperately searching for what he needed, and only now did it choose to reveal itself to him; Sherlock couldn't leave that haven.

John groaned, twisting his head to make his neck more accessible to the curly-haired man. Sherlock eagerly moved along his neck, taking it as an invitation to keep going. John's dug his short, blunt nails into the tight skin of Sherlock's back, moaning loudly. He'd never been this vocal, even with Mary. Somehow, Sherlock released everything John had kept tightly wound in his chest.

John had never been one to let go. Letting go was dangerous. Letting go hurt people. Letting go got John hurt. Remaining restrained was safer. Restraint kept him safe and out of harm's way. Sherlock seemed to make John lose all self-control; but John didn't want it to stop.

John felt  _alive_ with Sherlock.

John had never thought about it, but that's what he felt like before he met Sherlock.

He felt  _dead_ without Sherlock.

He hadn't truly felt anything after his sister ran away. That had been the day he realized how destructive impulsiveness could be. John moved with a certain numbness weighing his limbs down. He forgotten what the weightlessness of spontaneity felt like in his bones. Sherlock made him feel weightless, limitless. John finally felt uninhibited.

He knew this may seem foolish, careless, sudden, hasty, even unwise, but John could not stop how he felt. To stop loving Sherlock Holmes was to stop John Watson's heart- to rip it straight from his chest and rip it to shreds.

John stilled, realization halting his mind in its tracks.

He loved Sherlock.

He  _loved_  Sherlock.

He didn't lust after Sherlock. This was not a desire fueled by passion or ardor, but of feelings only the heart could harbor. John loved Sherlock as his mother had loved John's father- pure, absolute unadulterated, without reservations or restraint.

John was terrified of the thought almost as much as he was of his father.

 _Not every pair of soulmates is like my parents_ , John reminded himself firmly, desperately trying to lose himself in Sherlock's attention again. He tried to fake it, to make Sherlock believe he was still invested in this moment. It didn't work. The mood had been ruined. Sherlock had noticed the moment John had lost himself to his own mind once more by the stiffening in his lover's body.

"Love?" Sherlock questioned, concerned.

John almost had a heart attack.

 _It's just a term of endearment- a slip of the tongue_ , John told himself, drowsing himself in a mental bucket of ice water.

"Yes?" John replied, straining for normalcy in his voice.

"You're not truly here with me," Sherlock gently said, staring in John's eyes with concern he'd never shown anyone before. The doctor averted his eyes, unable to maintain his unnerving eye contact.

Sherlock Holmes stared with such an intensity that John could forget that there was even a world around them, others breathing the same air as them, and sometimes even who John himself was. When captured in Sherlock's gaze, the only thing that mattered was Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, there's just a lot on my mind," Watson explained lamely, desperately trying to avoid the topic on his mind. Sherlock didn't need any of his baggage, though John was sure Sherlock could deduce everything about his childhood, his family. If he could deduce almost everything about Harry from a simple glance at John's re-gifted phone, why couldn't Sherlock deduce his whole life after years of knowing him? It doesn't take a psychologist or a doctor to explain why John may refuse to acknowledge his soulmate's existence or possible explanations for why there are scars on his wrists.

Plus, with his almost-unfettered access to police reports, it wouldn't be that hard to find the police report from  _that_  night. Hell, with Sherlock's connections, he could probably get a glance at John's medical records; which there are plenty of, since the early years of his life hosted tons of visits to the E.R. for unexplainable  _accidents_.

The military had called him a klutz when they'd first taken a peek at his medical history.

He didn't bother to correct them.

"You left again." Sherlock's voice dragged John out of his trance, reminding him that he was still among the living.

"I seem to be doing that a lot lately."

"Yes, you are. Care to explain?" Ah, yes, there was Sherlock's famous  _subtleness_. John distantly wondered if he knew what subtlety or tact was, or if that had gotten deleted with the solar system.

"You wouldn't want to hear about it. Let's just keep the mood light. How about breakfast?" John quickly suggested, smiling at his new lover. Perhaps food would distract him.

Sherlock squinted, obviously unfazed by John's attempt to throw the wool over Sherlock's eyes. "John, you know you can tell me anything. What is bothering you?"

"Sherlock, leave it alone," John bit out between clenched teeth, then rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. The detective stared at John's back, wondering what monsters lurked in the recesses of the great doctor's mind. Sherlock had realized long ago that John's childhood had been less than stellar, however he'd refrained himself from deducing further. Sherlock wanted John to tell him. He wanted the two to have the upmost trust, and if Sherlock knew everything, there would be nothing to build to. Sherlock had realized that was what Mary and John had that Sherlock and John didn't. Trust, surprise, and an equal playing field. Well, John and Sherlock had thought that, at least. But everything they'd built together allowed for John to forgive her for her deceit.

Sherlock  _craved_  that sort of intimacy.

"Why do you hide from me?" The detective questioned, hiding his hurt with surgical precision. Sherlock refused to let whatever was between them persist. He wanted the canyon between them gone, torn away by their love.

"I'm not hiding." John bit the inside corner of his bottom lip.

"You're hiding like a scared child. You've been hiding since the day we met. You put on a brave face, but you're scared to death. Of me? Of us? I'll never know if you keep hiding, burying your treasure so the world will never see it. You refuse to let your own soulmate see your weaknesses, and I can't keep pretending it's fine, that I'm not hurting. Whatever has caused you this fear isn't just hurting you. I can't keep living with this void- living like this," Sherlock said solemnly, sitting up on his own side of the bed as well.

"You can't keep living like this? What, are you going to leave? Abandon me because everything is  _too hard_?" John hissed, standing and harshly yanking on his pants. Sherlock stood and spun around to face John, eyebrows furrowed and lips in a hard line.

"John, don't believe so little of me. I'm your  _soulmate_."

"Just because we're soulmates doesn't make everything perfect. Sometimes your soulmate is the worst possible thing for you. Nothing is a guarantee in this world, so don't act like it is. Don't act like everything has to be  _so fucking perfect_  just because we're soulmates!" John yelled, turning to glare at Sherlock. His chest was heaving with rage, his heart pounding as memories assaulted his consciousness.

Sherlock's eyes widened, his mouth forming a small 'O.' John wondered if he'd said too much, revealed too much, but he couldn't take it back. That's something his parents had taught him. You could never take it back.

"John, I can't correct your past. I can't cure it of whatever happened, but all I can promise you is that I know we're perfect for each other."

"That's what you say now. But what about in a year, five years, in two decades? Who's to say how you will feel then?" John didn't realize he was crying until his vision was blurry and his cheeks were wet. Sherlock, distressed by John's tears, strode across the room and gripped John's cheeks in his large, warm hands.

Sherlock's calloused thumbs swept the tears away, rubbing circles into John's skin. John's dark blue-grey eyes stared into the odd eyes of Sherlock. John knew it as heterochromia; however, Sherlock's eyes were much too beautiful to be reduced to that. Sherlock's right eye was mostly blue with swirls of green and one spot of brown above his pupil, while his left eye was more green with swirls of blue. They were swirling voids that John could get lost in.

"I can't promise that we won't fight, that we'll always love each other and be perfectly happy. Some days we'll hate each other, and we'll scream and shout and cry. But I can promise you that I will love you for all time, and I'll never give up on us," Sherlock said gently, leaning his forehead against John's. The blond stared up at his curly brunet, shocked.

And somehow, that was enough.

Maybe someday it wouldn't be, but for now, it was enough.


End file.
